The Fortunate Ones

Quatre followed Duo unwillingly through the sea of people, which became more… colorful… block by block. “Duo…” he hissed, brushing past an elaborately sequined and lacquered queen who tried to pinch his ass and missed, “‘I had a bad day’ does not mean ‘Take me to the best little whorehouse in Texas!’”

Duo was uncharacteristically unresponsive, but pointed out various sights as they passed, like the Rainbow Café and an adult toy shop called “Does Your Mother Know?” Quatre grew stoplight red, one part embarrassed and six million parts frustrated.

Duo yanked him around the corner off the main drag. A small mass of dolled up creatures surrounded a stage door, which was flanked by two beefy men who looked too big to squeeze past the doorframe. Duo used his skinny limbs to his advantage and elbowed past the men (?) teetering in their stilettos, platforms, and footwear which had yet to serve any purpose except to hinder movement. Quatre felt like he’d need to take a shower if he ever got home from the amount of makeup rubbing off on his clothes and skin. He could hear Trowa already asking, “Quatre… when did it rain glitter?”

“Hey, Alfred,” Duo chirped, his face shifting liquidly from intense concentration to relaxed. And this wasn’t Duo-alert relaxed, Quatre realized. It was Duo Ex-Lax relaxed. If someone tried to smash his face in with a shovel, he probably wouldn’t have noticed.

The mass of rock-hewn man to the left shifted in Duo’s general direction and smiled as much as his bulging facial muscles allowed. “You here to vada Priscilla mincing about? Feely omipalones like her with the bona leucoddy always pull up demand.” *

Duo grinned and drawled, “Just duey, th’ bona omi ‘n’ me.” Quatre stared at Duo, then back at Alfred, and they both looked at him expectantly.

“The cuckoo flies over the nest at midnight?” Quatre hazarded. Several people in the crowd laughed and Alfred waved them in.

“Free of charge,” he rumbled. “Troll on in.” Quatre, without really thinking, followed Duo inside, flashing him the rock-on sign. Duo gave him a look.

“You throw up the horns?” he wondered, a grin growing on his face.

“Yeah,” said Quatre, beginning to relax a little, until he realized that he and Duo were inside the Lady Marmalade, the most exclusive gay bar on the East Coast.

Duo tugged on Quatre’s arm like an eager kid. “Q-man, two words: OPEN. BAR.” Quatre hung back a little, still trailing after Duo. “Duo, I told Trowa I’d see the show he directed tonight. And you said you’d go with me to see Heer--”

A heavy techno beat exploded in the club, and a mass of bodies immediately converged on the dance floor. “FORGET ABOUT IT!” Duo yelled over the noise. “TONIGHT WE’VE GOT A DATE!”

“With each other?” Quatre murmured bewildered to himself, wondering if he would be having a tea party with a mad hatter soon. He sat down in a plush mod barstool. “Bloody Mary,” he mumbled to the hiply apathetic bartender. The music faded and an announcer babbled into a microphone. Duo watched, leaning against the bar and nonchalantly sipping his gimlet. Quatre unconsciously accepted the alcohol pushed into his hand, afraid to turn around and see whatever was parading itself around on the stage. Quatre tipped the tender more than he deserved and asked for another drink before he’d even started on his first, because it seemed logical at this point to get piss drunk.

“And now,” cried an annoyingly effeminate male, “Performing a classical piece—PRI-SCI-LLA!” Amidst raucous cheers, whistles, catcalls and passionate propositions, a lithe creature in white silk took the stage and gripped the microphone. Quatre spun in his chair to watch the big fuss. The lights came up, and glanced off her glossy short hair and the teasing Ziggy-Stardust throwback, boots and a Japanese yukata, probably sans underwear. A cute, perky, and somewhat melodious voice issued from pink seashell lips, as people began to dance where they stood.

“I come home in the morning light; my mother asks when you gonna live your life right?” she waggled her finger in time with her swaying hips. “Oh momma dear, we’re not the fortunate ones!” A playful smirk tugged at her lips. “But girls—” she sang wryly, “Just wanna have fu-un.” Everyone was singing along except Quatre and Duo. “Whoa, girls just wanna have fun!”

Quatre was mesmerized.

Duo was having a fit.

“The phone rings in the middle of the night—my father asks ‘what you gonna do with your life?’” A boy leapt on the stage and began grinding against the chanteuse’s hip. The girl wasn’t thrown, but instead threw her arm around the boy’s hunched shoulders and sang the lyrics to him. “Oh Daddy!” she purred. “You know you’re still number one!” She butt-bumped the drunkard off the stage with a deft roll of her hip. “But girls just wanna have fun. That’s all they really want!” she warbled.

Duo turned to Quatre, grinning. “Backstage passes,” he mouthed. Quatre, distracted by the pink, soft-looking rabbits mingling with the crowd, ordered another beverage. His face nearly matched the color of his shirt, which was salmon according to him and pink goddamnit according to Duo. His hand found the glass and he sipped, turning his attention to the increasingly raunchy dance, which was ending. The girl took her bows and the club rocked with the exuberance of the crowd. Duo grabbed Quatre, who let go of his drink in a moment of panic and morosely followed his friend backstage.

The fluorescent lights were harsher, making Quatre’s red face look splotchy and Duo look insane. Duo scooted down the hall at a pace far too speedy for a Quatre so smashed he couldn’t walk a line if it was a mile wide and ducked into a small dingy dressing room. Quatre made it to the doorway and leaned into the frame, waiting patiently for the world to make visual sense again. When his eyesight cleared, he saw Duo pinned to the wall by the singer from before, being kissed hard. Quatre blinked in confusion. Duo and Heero were—

“D…” Quatre paused; a large soft rabbit had brushed by him, quietly begging his pardon, and sat down at the vanity. With some ceremony it picked up the pouf from the makeup case and began powdering its whiskers delicately. Quatre shook his head violently. “Duo—” The two stopped making out and looked at him expectantly.

Quatre stared at them with glazed eyes for a long three point six seconds.

Trowa rose from the couch and patted Quatre’s head; glitter from his hair fell on his nose.

“So, Quatre,” he said with a small smile that was trying to restrain hysterics, “How’d you like the show?”